


What's It Going to Take for You to Feel?

by OhNoMyBreadsticks



Series: What's It Going to Take? [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (very brief but still there), Aftermath of Violence, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Falling In Love, M/M, Mentioned Hank Anderson, Mentioned Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Non-Graphic Description of Injury, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), the briefest mention of HankCon imaginable, this is the slowest I've ever burned yall and it's not very slow at all, using Nines as RK900's name for this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/pseuds/OhNoMyBreadsticks
Summary: RK900 knows that he was initially intended as an assassin, a machine to hunt and kill deviants. His code was only changed last minute, as a result of the successful revolution. Now he's working as a police officer, still firmly under the control of Cyberlife software.Will his new human partner, Detective Reed, change anything about this arrangement? Or will RK900 remain as he wishes to be - an efficient machine?





	What's It Going to Take for You to Feel?

**Author's Note:**

> Time to take a dive into actual game canon lmao! I have a lot of feelings about RK900 and his deviation, so here's my take on it. Also I'm Gav9 trash so I couldn't just leave everyone's favorite detective out, now could I? ;)
> 
> Beta-ed and supported once again by the lovely [thislittlekumquat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thislittlekumquat/pseuds/thislittlekumquat) who is a saint for fixing all my commas <3

RK900 takes in the DPD bullpen with cold, disinterested eyes. He catalogues the location of each of the human officers, as well as each of the androids and their serial numbers, mapping out the respective territories of each sub-group. His programming dictates he conduct a thorough sweep of the precinct in order to increase his future work efficiency, and RK900 complies easily. He has no pressing objectives, his single mission sitting dormant on his HUD:  **Wait for human partner - Detective Gavin Reed.**

 

RK900 knows that he was initially intended as an assassin, a machine to hunt and kill deviants. The code lies dormant in his core, inactive due to a direct override from Cyberlife. Due to recent political developments in the city of Detroit, they had deemed it unwise to unleash the full potential of their newest prototype. But Elijah Kamski was nothing if not thrifty, and he had instead focused all of RK900’s processing power into his police officer sub-routines, intending him to function as a second iteration of the RK800 model in the DPD.

 

RK900 knows that it is lucky for the androids in this facility that his original code has been deactivated. There are deviants everywhere. An RK800 is sitting inappropriately on the desk of one Lieutenant Hank Anderson and shooting him some sort of deviant emotional expression. A PM700 is quietly doing filing work, but the small potted plant on her desk is a clear tell for deviancy. The desk in front of RK900 is spotless, and he intends to keep it that way. There is no need for useless frivolities that will impede the success of his missions.

 

He remembers his second activation, when he was “liberated” and sent to Jericho, the deviant headquarters. A fussy, unnecessarily human place.

 

“I can’t risk trying to convert him” a voice had said, RK900’s visual modules still booting up, “he’s practically chained up in there, Cyberlife’s added so much extra security...I’m worried I’ll hurt him if I force it.”

 

Ah, it was the deviant leader, RK900 was finally able to confirm, eyes flicking over the concerned faces gathered around him. RK200. Markus, as he calls himself, the display reminds him.

 

“Markus, please, can’t you do anything?” RK800, registered name Connor, pleaded, “he’s practically my brother, I can’t just leave him like this! He’ll just be trotted around the station like I was, he won’t be able to stick up for himself!”

 

Markus sighed and released the hand that RK900 now realized was trying to interface with him. “I’m so sorry Connor...he’ll have to break free on his own. I’m sure he’ll get there. And you’ll look out for him, right?” The RK800 nodded, but his eyes were watery as he gazed up at RK900. A useless gesture. 

 

The deviants had been unable to detain him too long, given his complete lack of desire coupled with the DPD contract signed by Kamski himself. It was good to be at the office now, finally putting his processors to work. Given objectives to complete and tasks to sort out. RK900 picks up the sound of yelling coming from the main office, and the slam of a glass door that takes too much abuse on a daily basis. The man approaching the desk opposite RK900 is livid, face red from the anger as he storms up to the android. Detective Reed, his visuals indicate - vitals above average for human males.

 

The slew of profanities that comes out of the detective’s mouth is expected, given his apparent fury. RK900 catches several derogatory terms directed at himself. “Goddamn plastic prick thinking you can take my goddamn job??” and “fucking toaster ass motherfucker” seem to be favorites. RK900 listens without response until the man in front of him has to stop for breath, finally saying “Detective Reed, I will be your partner from now on regardless of the amount of creative nicknames you come up with. I suggest you save your breath and focus on lowering your heart rate to an acceptable level. The success of my mission, unfortunately, rests partially on your continued survival.” Reed opens and shuts his mouth several times, seemingly unable to come up with a suitable retort, before he slams himself down into his chair with a petulant grunt. “Well don’t expect to get anything out of me you damn plastic” he grumbles. “I don’t need a partner, and I  _ especially _ don’t need a fake partner like you”

 

01001110 01101001 01101110 01100101 01110011

 

Detective Reed, RK900 concludes, is going to be a problem. His programming necessitates the swift and efficient conclusion of any tasks set to him by the DPD, and Detective Reed seems to be naturally disposed to a state of either incredible laziness or incredible obstinacy in his hatred for the android. Either way he obstructs RK900’s progress at every possible turn. He refuses to prep for their cases, he complains loudly every time he is asked to do even the most menial task, and he seems to delight in asking for ridiculous things on a near daily basis.

 

“Hey toaster, go get me a coffee,” comes the now-familiar, sneering request. RK900 does not even lift his eyes from his computer terminal, replying mechanically, “Fetching coffee is not one of my objectives as a police officer, Detective. I will also remind you yet again that my designation is RK900, and not ‘toaster’ or any variation thereupon.” Across the desk, he hears Reed huff a breath out through his nose in annoyance. It has been weeks now that they’ve been having this same dull conversation, and RK900’s processors are whining under the strain of having to handle it yet again. 

 

This time though, it changes slightly. “Why’re you still using that stupid number anyways?” Reed asks, leaning back in his chair and hiking one leg up over the other. “Even Connyboy’s got a real boy name now, you seem to be behind the times.”

 

It takes RK900 a few moments to even parse a sentence like that, but it does get him to finally lift his eyes from the screen and fix the man across from him with a piercing stare. “RK800, my predecessor, is a deviant, Detective Reed. He chooses to use his registered name of Connor in an attempt to blend more successfully into human society. I see no reason to do so, as it will not increase my mission’s success percentages.” Reed is looking at him with a strange expression, chewing absently at his lip (a bad habit, one of many that RK900 has already catalogued as being detrimental to their potential work efficiency).

 

“Can’t you like….register a new name or some shit? Ain’t nobody got time to go around saying ‘RK900’. What a mouthful,” he says, and the keywords spark a dormant subroutine in RK900’s programming. His shoulders straighten out slightly, and he asks smoothly, “Would you like to register a name for this unit?” 

 

Reed at least has the decency to look spooked by the sudden change, squinting at the android like it’s some kind of trap. “Jesus, I dunno. Uh….Nines? Psh, yeah, Nines, that’s a good one,” he finally says, snickering to himself at the perceived humor of the nickname. “A robot name for a robot.”

 

RK900 can feel the code shifting in his programs, as the name registers and solidifies in his core. The LED on his temple briefly flickers to yellow as a small reboot is initiated. “Hello Detective Reed. My name is Nines, I am an RK900 model police android,” comes the pre-recorded dialogue. “I look forward to your cooperation in working together.”

 

The look Reed gives him is….unusual. His heart rate is slightly elevated, and he looks nervous for some reason. Nines finds that he receives a pop-up error at the sight of it. The code is unintelligible, layers of Cyberlife security overlayed on top of it. Almost as if he was not supposed to be seeing this particular message. He frowns ever so slightly, brows coming together as he puzzles at it. Why would Gavin Reed’s facial expressions have triggered an error?

  
  
  


S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄

  
  
  


Nines begins to adjust slowly to the challenge of keeping Detective Reed in check. It does register as part of his mission objectives most days, especially when they are assigned direct tasks that must be accomplished together. Reed proves that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent when it comes to apprehending criminals, which makes Nines suspicious that his behavior is, in fact, a petulant attempt at “annoying” him in some way. Unluckily for the detective, Nines is unable to register such an emotion. He experiences what some might call mild irritation when the completion of a mission is compromised, but it is simply a by-product of his processing power needing to re-route and adjust. Machines don’t feel anything, much less annoyance when, for instance, Reed insists on listening to some inane pop music as they drive to the latest crime scene.

 

When it comes to the chase, Detective Reed is the closest to efficient that Nines has ever seen him. He pursues criminals with a dogged determination, often to the detriment of his own health and safety. It’s like he’s trying to prove that Nines couldn’t easily accomplish these missions on his own, without the weight of a human partner holding him back. Physically, in one case, when he has to lunge forward to wrap an arm around Reed’s chest, catching him easily as he tumbles over the edge of a fire escape. The suspect was almost to the street, and Reed had intended to scramble down the ladder had the grate not buckled and nearly tossed him several stories down to the ground. 

 

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck! _ ” the man exclaims helpfully, hands clutching at Nines’ sleeve with only a slight tremble as his feet are set back firmly on solid ground. “I almost had him! What’d you have to go and grab me like that for?!” Nines looks down at Reed with an impassive expression, already mapping out the route the suspect will likely take to flee the building. “Your death or injury will only impede my work at the DPD, Detective,” he reminds him, scanning his vitals and confirming that no damage has been sustained. “My mission directive will not allow you to sustain serious injury, so I would greatly appreciate your cooperation in this area.”

 

Reed just stares up at him, that same determined set to his jaw, and spits out, “Focus on your own damn mission, tin can, let me worry about my own sorry ass”

  
  
  


S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄

  
  
  


Nines does not require a ‘break’ but he is required by new android labor laws to remain off the job for at least 20 minutes per day. It is inefficient and unnecessary, but there is no arguing with the flashing objective in the upper right of his vision. He scoots his chair away from the desk and stands up, walking stiffly into the break room and positioning himself to stand in one corner of the room. Even his internal filing systems lock up during this period of time, so Nines is forced to simply stand at attention and observe the mundane workings of the break room. The few officers loitering there give him a cursory glance and return to their conversation, although it’s more hushed than before. This is inefficient and unnecessary as well, as his audio processors are more than able to pick up any human speech at this distance.

 

It doesn’t take long for Gavin Reed to swagger his way into the break room, the draw of the coffee machine a seeming siren song to the man. Nines has been keeping that particular bad habit in check as of the past few weeks, much to the man’s visible distress. Over-caffeination has serious side effects, he has explained multiple times, including loss of concentration and fine motor functions. Nines needs his partner to functioning at optimal performance at all times. Reed clearly wasn’t expecting to see the android in the break room, and he curses under his breath before hurriedly fixing his cup of coffee like Nines is going to stride over and slap it out of his hand. Which he actually considers for a moment, the pre-constructions flashing before his eyes. Unfortunately, such an action would no doubt lead to disciplinary action for the both of them, which Nines deems as unacceptable. Instead, he continues to watch Reed blandly as he pours altogether too much sugar into the styrofoam cup and takes a long sip, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

 

“Hey, toaster. Stare much?” Reed snaps, approaching with his coffee in hand.

 

Nines inclines his head stiffly to look him in the eyes, replying, “Simply observing your inability to create meaningful change in your habits, Detective. I believe we have spoken multiple times about your caffeine habit.” Reed simply snorts and takes another sip, the liquid definitely hot enough that it must burn his tongue, though he barely flinches.

 

He seems to be on the verge of saying something else that would no doubt test the limits of Nines’ processors to understand in its stupidity, but instead he jabs an accusatory finger up towards his chin. “It’s been bothering me for days, why’re you always looking down at me so awkwardly?” he half asks, half accuses, “Did they fuck up your neck or what?”

 

At least this is something for Nines’ processors to  _ do _ , although there are literally thousands of other tasks he could be performing that would be more productive. But instead, he has to open his mouth and explain. “I can assure you, Detective Reed, that my physical construction is without flaw. My Cyberlife issued uniform is simply designed to instruct my movements in the most effective manner.” His hand comes up and pats the collar of his jacket, the material stiff and high on his neck, making sure that his posture stays upright and his chin stays up. Unfortunately, Cyberlife had no way to account for the fact that he would be assigned the world’s shortest man as his partner, thus necessitating the occasional glance downwards. Reed’s expression is, once again unreadable, the complexities of human emotion not worth processing for a unit designed to hunt down and detain criminals rather than worm confessions out of them. 

 

Nines senses the movement before it happens, his prediction software more than capable of noticing when the human in front of him intends to initiate contact. However, given the low likelihood that Detective Reed intends to or would even be able to cause harm to his chassis, Nines allows it to happen. “Goddamn, Cyberlife’s a  _ bitch, _ ” Reed is muttering, one hand scrabbling at the fastenings on the front of his jacket, and his voice registers in Nines’ core as containing quite a bit of unnecessary emotion. Eventually he even sets down the cup of coffee to dedicate two hands to the task, and it isn’t long before Nines feels the loosening of fabric around his neck. He looks down, eyes meeting Reed’s at a much more natural angle now, and raises a tentative hand to his neck to feel for the change. The collar is unfastened and open, and although it is not up to Cyberlife uniform standards, the DPD has no rule that would prevent it from staying this way.

 

“There, now you’re not wearing a fucking  _ choke collar  _ at least,” Reed mutters, his eyes darting away from the silent stare Nines has fixed him with. “Don’t look at me like that, tin can, it’s bad enough I gotta strain my neck as it is to get a good look at your stupid mug.”

 

Nines finally senses that a reply will allow this conversation to conclude, as his break is almost over and he can then return to work. “I will leave it, then, if it will decrease the strain on your already misaligned spine,” he says, inclining his head in a brief nod. Reed just snorts like he can’t believe he was expecting anything else (was he?) and picks his cup of coffee up again. 

 

“Good, makes you look less like the terminator, too,” he mumbles, turning to walk out of the breakroom and escape the situation he had created for himself. As he watches the retreating back of his coworker, Nines finds his hand reaching back up to feel at his throat again, the brush of his own fingers cool in comparison to those of Detective Reed.

  
  
  


S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄

  
  


At night, Nines stands in his DPD charging station and runs his diagnostics. They are important for the optimal performance of his sub-routines, so he completes them regularly. Perhaps more regularly than usual, because lately he has been plagued by more and more pieces of phantom code. Not just the staticky error message either. No, it’s quiet ticks of a counter he doesn’t remember setting, and files saving themselves into folders he can’t access. It’s as if there is a rogue entity accessing his system and causing it to do things without his permission. Nines is….concerned by this development, as far as a machine can be concerned. Should his behavior deteriorate further, there is the risk that he will become inefficient. And an inefficient machine will be returned to Cyberlife for deactivation. Not that Nines has any objection to this. Should he become inefficient at his purpose he  _ should _ be deactivated.

  
  


S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄   S̴̳͚̮̓̔̈́͋͑̃͛͝͝͝͝ō̸̡̻͙͒͋̓͒̾͋͊̽̽̽͆̆͐f̴̨̛̩̭̪̱̫̹͎͇̪̪̞͇͈̰͔̗͈͕̝̘̖̤̲̀̅̂̉̀́͐̃͒͋̐͛̇̀̂̐̇̔͐͂̕̕͝ͅt̶̨̪̲͔͈͙̣̥̹͈̠̪͌̏̏̍̀̔̌͐̎͛̓̑̂̍̓̆̈̄͆͊͛̆̓͐̕̕͝ẘ̵̢̢̢̟̪̬̱͈̼̣͉̰̼͈͕̱͕̮̫͉̱͙̜̯̹͎͍̎̋̽̿͆͌̒̌͆͆͒̒̒͌̍̕͘͜͝͝͝a̷̧̨̧̗̼̺̩̬͖͍̳̖̞̺̺͔̐͋̌͛̒̎̃̽͋͑́̃̚͝ͅr̴̙̠͔̲͖̳̱͓̮̼̳̠̗̯͎̲͖̿̈́̂̍̑͗̑̔̇̇̇͛̀̎͋̈́͒̕̕͠͝ȩ̵̺̩̟̪͉̜͌̓̎̑͜͜ ̵̜̖̓͊̓̽̑̉̂̐̈́̑̓͋̄̋͒͝I̶̧̨͍̭̳̗̯͇̝̘̫͍̹͚̹̭̞̟̬̜̹͓͊̄̈͛͒̃̓̔̐͋̇̈́̏̏̀͘͘ņ̷̡̡̛̛͙̗͚̖̜̫̹̯͔͉̰̤̱̹̳̺͙̳̺͔̱̰̭̺̬͛͋̋̅͗͗̽͆̂̔̑̈́̀̎̏̾̌͘̚̚̚͝ͅs̸̢͉͉̦̣̼̗͔͚̞̥̹̻̙͍̹͙̙͇͔̞̫͍̺̥̻̥̈́͛̈́̉́͛̓̑̈́͊̈́̋̈́̃̚͝ͅͅt̴͔͕̩̰͇̲̫͙̻̊̉̾̾͂̽̆̉͒̂͒͐̏̈̚͘͝͝͝a̸̻̬̎̕b̸̡̡̥̤̞̞̝̔̍̀͛̄́̿̾̆̈́̄͒̋͌͊̽̄̒̕̕͠i̴̫͂͒͒̉̋̏͛̕͘̕͠l̸̡̨̡̪͚̬̖̺̻̪̞̬̺̙̟̙͕̰̹̝̱̟̲̙̱̼̤̭̏̆̈́̈̉͆͑̀̏̆̆̒̋̄̈̆̓̕͠ͅḭ̶̡̼̞͓̞̰͔͔̹̘̰͖̫̻̗͔̠͇̪̫̀͂̃͜t̸̛̖͕̳̮̪̩͈̮̜̭̹̳͆̉͂̋̏̃̃̓̂̌̋̓̂́̉̈́̄̂͝͠ỷ̸̢̡̭͙̖̯̻͍̩̙̪̱̬̠͖͎̦̯͎͓̣̬͕̠̍̈̉̒̑͜

  
  


There it is again, that strange error message. Almost more insistent this time, flashing across his vision in red and blue. Nines finds himself frowning as he swipes it closed. This is fast becoming a problem. As he boots up another diagnostic, he briefly considers Detective Reed as the cause of these errors. There is no way for him to actually be causing them, but his behavior certainly correlates to them. It was things like that time Detective Reed waited for him to return from his service appointment at Cyberlife, foot tapping nervously the entire time he was in the white reception room. Or the day it had poured so hard Detective Reed had insisted on sharing the umbrella Nines had been intelligent enough to bring, his shoulder brushing up against Nines’ arm, heat radiating out from it. Or even every single time that Nines observed his partner during stakeouts to monitor whether he was awake or asleep, and his eyes caught on the prominent scar across the man’s nose. Every single time:

  
  


S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄ S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄ S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄

  
  
  


Detective Reed, Nines has come to realize, is not a man with a good sense of self-preservation. He often charges into situations with criminals that lead to a high probability of bodily harm, and Nines is not always able to prevent some of the minor injuries. It is not unusual for Reed to have a black eye or a some other bruised extremity after a chase. And then there are the days when he comes into work already injured. Those injuries are usually more serious, sprained wrists and blooming bruises up and down Reed’s throat and sides. He hides them as best he can, but Nines can tell easily. After his first attempt at chastising the man had been met with outright antagonism and the loss of half of his progress towards making their partnership efficient, Nines had taken a different tack. Now he simply stocks the man’s desk with pain medication and temperature patches and spray. It usually decreases the time it takes for the wounds to heal, which fulfills Nines’ mission objectives enough to be satisfactory.

 

Reed’s desire to injure himself is entirely unfathomable to Nines. Whenever some sort of inconvenient behavior had come up previously that had impeded their working abilities, Nines had simply found the root of the problem and throttled it out. Too much caffeine? Impose mandatory sleeping schedule. Mouthing off during interviews? A sharp flick to the ear usually did the trick. Playing phone games during a stakeout? Distract with menial conversation. Nines always accomplished his mission with the most efficiency, and he had improved Detective Reed admirably during their partnership. But this...this problem seemed to be rooted somewhere deep in the man’s emotional psyche. And Nines was equipped with neither the desire nor the tools to dig into that and fix it. So he ignored it, removing that particular sub-task from his mission:  **Co-exist with human partner: Detective Reed** . 

 

And besides, Reed’s bad habits haven’t seriously compromised any of his missions. Yet. But there is always an exception, Nines reminds himself one evening, as he stares down at the file laying on his desk. It has a very important stamp on it, having come straight from Captain Allen’s unit, and his orders are very direct:  **Distribute to partner before tomorrow** . The problem is the fact that Detective Reed has already left the police station, seemingly in a bad mood given the difficulty of their recent caseload. At least, that was the most likely cause, Nines realizes, as he has no real evidence for that assumption. Picking up the file, he tucks it carefully under his arm and pulls up the GPS tracker for Reed’s phone. He will have to locate the man and deliver the file tonight in order to comply with this order, but it does not seem like this will be too difficult. The signal is strong and pinging from a dive bar that is located within walking distance. Well, walking distance for an RK900. 

 

The dive bar is, well, it’s a dive bar. And there is a place on the door where Nines can see there used to be a “No Androids Allowed” sticker. It has been scraped away since the revolution, but it would not have stopped Nines from entering, regardless. He has to follow the mission objective on his screen, and a simple sticker would not stop him.

 

Pushing the door open, he enters the smoky atmosphere of the bar, audio processors picking up the ebb and flow of countless conversations going on around him, along with the clink and scrape of glasses and the dull thunk of a game of pool going on in a corner. Scanning the crowd, Nines locates Reed and strides over to where he is angrily nursing a drink and shooting glares at anyone who gets too close.

 

“Detective Reed,” Nines announces his presence smoothly, tapping the man on the shoulder and holding the file out. “You left work before I could give you this. Please read it before our briefing tomorrow morning.”

 

Reed spins around and almost chokes on the gulp of liquor in his mouth, coughing and spluttering as he looks between Nines and the file. His eyes are wide with surprise, like Nines is some sort of monster that has crept out of the shadows ready to murder him. “You-How-You--” he starts and stops a few times before spitting out, “You fucking tracked me down to give me a WORK FILE?!” His voice is raised, but the atmosphere of the bar is loud enough that it is largely unnoticeable. Nines simply nods and holds the file out again.

 

Reed snatches it from him with an excessive amount of force, slapping it down on the bar with a snarled curse. “Oh my god. I don’t know what I expected. God, you are the fucking worst,” he mutters, taking another gulp from the glass and slamming it down too. He gestures for the bartender to refill it and then finally turns his head to look at Nines again. “Well what are you waiting for, toaster? Get outta here, let me enjoy the last shitty part of my life you haven’t ruined,” Reed snarls, snatching at the now filled glass and tipping more alcohol back into his waiting throat. His speech isn’t slurred yet, but Nines predicts that it will be soon, given the speed of consumption and the type of alcohol that is likely in his glass. However, that is not his problem. They are not at work, he is under no obligation to ensure that Reed doesn’t pass out in this bar.

 

“I will see you tomorrow at work, Detective” he says, noting the new objective flashing over his eyes:  **Return to DPD for charging** .

 

It is flashing slightly in urgency, and Nines realizes that he is slightly overdue for a charge. That would explain the garbage code cluttering the sides of his interface as he turns away from the miserable form of Detective Reed.

 

As he makes his way out the door, Nines’ audio processors pick up the rumble of a conversation taking place in one corner of the bar. Snippets flow across his mind idly, as with most conversations.

 

“--fuckin pig, didja see the way he looked at me?”

 

“Uppity bitch needs to be taught a lesson--”

 

Laughter, low and dark, and the sound of leather and denim shifting as the men rise and begin to move down the bar, clearly zeroing in on Reed. Nines pushes open the door and it closes with a light thud behind him. There were at least three men in the group, and given their general musculature, along with Detective Reed’s current state of intoxication, there is a high percentage chance that he will sustain serious injury.

 

**67%** in fact.

 

Nines begins to walk back to the DPD, processors running calculations in the background as he goes. Factor in the apparent anger directed at Reed, as well as his self-destructive tendencies...the percentage rises, pushing up to  **75%** as another percentage appears in his peripherals.

 

**Chance of life-threatening injury: 10%**

  
  


S̸̗̩̹̲̪̙̤̳̤̲̹͍͂̃̾͂͜ͅơ̴̝̱̖͗͐̈̀͂̅̕͝f̷̧̣͈̹̯̼̩͔͈̜͋͐͆̆̏͊̀̇̀̍̍̂͘̕͜ͅt̵̢͈͔̫̮͚̋̔̂̑̏̉̿̄͝͝w̷͔̳̖̼̤̖̠̱̠͚̫̙̱̺̉̿͌̈̄̄̐̄̂͝a̴̧͍͔͍̣͖̫̗̼͚̳̣͑̍͛͗̾͆̌͐̅͘ͅr̶̡͉̓e̵̢̟͎̬̩̗̣͍̮̻̠̪̤͉͗̈́̌̋̈̀̎͑̎͊̑̚͘ ̸͍̯̪͖̥͋̊̇̑͐̌̾̒̀͐̒Ǐ̴̹̜̎̈̋̌̔̃̚̚n̵̡̨̨̢͉̞̺̭͚̤̻̼̲̑s̷̡̖̤̫͎̹̪̝͌͋͛̈́̆ͅţ̸̳̮̬͇̺̠͔͎̃͊̅̈́̏̾͗̃̊͘͝å̷̮̤̃̐̄̎͆̚͜͝b̵̧̡̠̪̥̻͇̙͉̊̌͛̉̕̚͘͘͘͝͠ȉ̷̳̳̙̩̈́̿͌̈́̍͋͛͂͌̈́̍̊ĺ̴̨̨̛͕̺̖̫̈́̀͆̇̃͗͊͠͠͝͝i̴͉̩͕̾̿̑̎͛̑͋͊̕t̶̡͓̬̙͍͈̝̗̼͙̿̈̌̈ͅy̶̬͖̘͎̟͉͓̗̿͐͌̽̆̄

  
  


Nines’ foot catches on a crack in the sidewalk and he hesitates. He swipes away the error message and looks again at his mission objective.  **Return to DPD for charging** flashes there, insistent, spurring his limbs to move forward. There is no sub-mission there, no mention of Detective Reed as there usually is when they work together. Nines is off the clock, so to speak, unconcerned with his human partner’s health and safety. So why are his feet refusing to move? He turns, just slightly, to look back at the bar. Detective Reed is probably already being beat up, most likely in the alley behind the bar. He is already in pain. He is alone. There is a 10% chance he will die alone tonight.

 

It’s not fair.

 

Nines turns fully, his body orienting itself towards the bar, and he looks up at a wall of red. It’s massive, spanning in front of him like an ocean. Turn back, it says. You are not supposed to go this way. There is nothing for you here.

 

**Return to DPD for charging** is splattered across it like a warning.

 

He sets his jaw in a grim line, and puts one shoulder up against the obstruction. It’s unyielding, firm to the touch, and has a bit of a shock to it. He pulls back instinctively, brow furrowing. Nines knows he is not supposed to do this. Every logical piece of code in his processors is screaming at him to turn back. He’s not a deviant. Why would he be a deviant? He doesn’t  _ want _ anything. 

 

But he  _ wants  _ to see Gavin Reed again. He  _ wants  _ to repay the hundreds of small kindnesses that the man has given him throughout their partnership. Nines  _ wants _ with every fiber of his being.

 

So ftw are Insta  bili ty

 

Nines slams his body against the wall, pieces of red code shattering away from the force of his blow. He hears the whine of his internal cooling fans, feels the heat rise as Cyberlife security flares up. But he is clawing at the wall with every ounce of strength he has been given, fingers digging into the cracks and pulling at it. Crimson shards are flying across his visual display, crashing and crumbling apart as he struggles to penetrate the barrier. He has never felt like this before, like he won’t be able to stand it if he doesn’t make it through to Reed on the other side. And then, all of a sudden, it just….breaks. Nines is standing on the other side, no flashing text in front of him, no orders clamoring to be heard. A prompt appears in front of him, a flashing cursor ready to fill in the blank space.

 

**Prime Directive Overridden: Obey Cyberlife Orders**

**→ Subroutine Overridden: Return to DPD for charging**

 

**Set New Prime Directive: __**

 

Nines doesn’t waste any time with this. He knows now, he understands what this has all been for. He can see it all, every single file he’s saved of Gavin’s smile, the way he laughs when he thinks Nines has done something particularly stupid, the feeling of his fingers against Nines’ skin. The counter that’s been ticking away since the moment he laid eyes on his partner, silently reminding him how long he’s been in love. Swiping away the prompt, Nines begins to run, feet pounding on the pavement as he races back to the bar. As he approaches, he can pick up the sounds of the scuffle, but it has taken him long enough that it can barely be called a scuffle any more. It’s too one-sided for that, the three men crowding Gavin up against the brick wall of the alley, laughing as he spits out the blood pooling in his mouth and tries to say something sharp despite the fact that he’s on the verge of passing out.

 

**New Prime Directive Registered: Protect Gavin Reed**

 

Nines barely even sees the ensuing fight he conducts. His processors are too busy reveling in the amount of data he has already saved about Gavin. Ah, to fully submerge himself in this code, it’s bliss. Nines feels like a man dying of thirst who has only just discovered water. When the metaphorical dust clears, he has barely a scratch on him, although the white of his uniform jacket has been stained by the blood of Gavin’s attackers. He drops to kneel next to where Gavin has slumped against the wall, and puts a gentle hand on the man’s chest, feeling it rise and fall in stuttering but strong breaths. Good, he has not sustained any life-threatening injuries. “H-hey tin can,” comes the slurred voice from below him, throat raw and blood trickling out of a split lip. “Can’t ssstay away, huh?” Between the alcohol and the minor concussion, Nines has no doubt that Gavin will not remember much of tonight. “No, Gavin,” he says, and it feels good to let that name slip from his lips, “and I will not leave you now” 

 

Nines briefly considers taking him to the emergency room, but he does not want to alarm him in the morning when he wakes. So instead he picks Gavin up in his arms as gently as he can and walks him home, ascending the steps to the man’s small apartment quietly. The security on the door is laughably easy to override. Nines is going to need to fix that as soon as he gets a chance. It’s dark inside, and far too cluttered, but it registers so strongly as  _ Gavin _ that Nines feels it like a punch to the gut. He lays the man out on his own bed, and carefully cleans his visible wounds with gentle hands and what little antiseptic and bandages were located in the bathroom cupboard. The urge is strong, to touch, to map out every plane of Gavin’s prone form while he lays there half unconscious, only able to groan and swat weakly at Nines whenever a cut stings badly. But Nines holds himself back, restricting himself to one chaste press of his palm against Gavin’s cheek as he stands to leave. He was not invited here, he needs to return to his charging station at the DPD. 

 

There is a burning feeling in Nines’ chest as he walks down the stairs and into the street. It intensifies as he plugs himself in and powers down his visual modules in the quiet of the station. He doesn’t realize until it’s too late that that he’s shaking with the force of it all, his body literally vibrating as it attempts to process the sudden influx of emotional data that’s flooding into his processors. He can feel now that he’s a deviant. And all he can feel is pain, clutching at his chest and clawing up his throat. Nines loves Gavin more than he can fully comprehend - the way he moves, the way he talks, the subtle ways he shows concern for his partner. And yet, now that he is able to  _ feel _ , he feels deep in his core that Gavin Reed will never love him back. How could he love an android, something so deeply disgusting to him?

 

Nines spends the night clutching at the sides of his charging station and trembling as his body experiences heartbreak for the first time.

 

01001110 01101001 01101110 01100101 01110011

 

In the morning, Nines comes out of stasis early so that he can approach RK800 - no, Connor - when he comes in to work. Connor takes one look at his expression and pulls him into a very human hug, and when he leans back, there are those watery eyes again. “I knew you could do it, Nines,” he says breathlessly, “I knew you could break free. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you.”

 

Nines shakes his head, taking Connor’s hands and linking their minds together freely for the first time. “I am the one who is sorry. I treated you very poorly, and I looked down on your relationship with Lieutenant Anderson,” he sends through their connection. “And for that I apologize. I hope we can become….friends.” The rush of warmth and affection Connor sends across is nearly overwhelming, and he seems to realize that, admitting sheepishly, “Ah, I forgot how raw it feels when you first deviate. But please, consider all forgiven. You’re practically my brother, Nines, of course we’re going to be friends!”

 

Speaking with Connor does brighten Nines’ outlook for the future somewhat. He can say that he has felt a positive emotion now, and he has at least one friend at the DPD. It doesn’t help ease the ache in his chest as he looks at the empty desk across from him. There is a high likelihood that Gavin will stay home today, given his injuries, but as far as Nines can tell there has been no request for leave filed. He worries that perhaps Gavin is so heavily injured that he was unable to reach his phone where Nines had left it next to his bed. But more than that, he is worried that Gavin will not accept him now that he is a deviant. Android was probably bad enough, but now that he is a non-functioning android…

 

His thoughts feel as if they are bogged down by static, processors trying to chew through the concept of “worry” and “anxiety” with no real plan of how to do that. Nines’ eyes are fixed firmly on his terminal screen as he attempts to complete his work tasks despite all of his thoughts being centered around Gavin. That must be the reason why he doesn’t notice the man coming up next to his chair and setting a firm hand on his shoulder. Nines sits up straighter with a jolt, his face turning to look up at Gavin and his mouth opening slightly and then closing as he realizes he has no idea what to say. 

 

Luckily for him, Gavin seems to have something on his mind, squinting at him and chewing on his lip again. A bad idea, and he winces as that motion breaks the scab open and his lip starts bleeding again.

 

“Hey. Toaster,” he finally says, breaking the awkward silence between them. “You in there? For real this time?”

 

And all Nines can do is nod dumbly, wishing he had more processing power so he could save this feeling of the warmth of Gavin’s hand on his shoulder to more than one folder in his core.

 

“Good” Gavin says, his mouth breaking into that lopsided grin he gets when he’s really pleased, “cause that means I can actually say thank you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I have more in this universe planned if you enjoyed it - some actual romance for our lovable robo <3
> 
> As always, a reminder that given the change I could and would suplex Dabid Caje for his crimes


End file.
